Demons
by EmilyMay93
Summary: One-shot. Sucking in a breath of the cold frigid Chicago air, he exhales, watching as it billows into the night like a puff of smoke. In retrospect, it reminded him of his time in Afghanistan; the cold nights filled with isolation.


**Chicago PD**

My great-grandfather passed away last week, and as a result I've been struggling to write anything with meaning. This afternoon, I wrote this one-shot. It's filled with darkness, isolation and sorrow. Basically everything I'm currently feeling in regards to the passing of the one man in my life who has never disappointed me.

I hope you enjoy, and please leave your thoughts at the end.

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**Demons**

Sucking in a breath of the cold frigid Chicago air, he exhales, watching as it billows into the night like a puff of smoke. In retrospect, it reminded him of his time in Afghanistan; the cold nights filled with isolation. He'd enlisted at eighteen, joined the police academy at twenty-two. The hardships are all he can remember. Taking a pull of his beer, he longs for a cigar. Longs for a way to numb the deep throbbing pain that always manages to find its way to the surface when he is alone.

At night, he has nightmares. Often waking in the early hours sheened in a cold sweat. The memories that haunt him are still as raw as the day they happened. Bodies. The bodies of children. Of teenagers. Of adults. Of the elderly. Bodies that reminded him of his own family. Bodies that couldn't be saved. He sees the faces when he closes his eyes. The demons that haunt him flash by in a slideshow of ruin. Dead eyes. Cracked lips. Bruises developing all over. The brutality of it all envelopes him. And it is all too much.

Casting a look over his shoulder he witnesses the happiness inside. The laughter that echoes off the walls and the smiles that plaster their individual faces. He forces the tightest of smiles as he looks back over the guardrail of the balcony. The city lights are majestic. The red and yellow lights from the cars below wind the streets, heading home after a long day or heading out, making their way to restaurants, movie theatres and nightclubs. Dropping his head, he pinches his eyes closed, seeking a reprieve from the harsh wind that is blowing across his wayward face.

He knows she's there before she has the chance to speak. It may be one of the coldest days in winter so far, but that doesn't take away from the floral scent of her perfume. She doesn't have expensive taste, she doesn't see the appeal, but her one luxury in life would definitely be the Viktor & Rolf perfume she spritzes on herself each morning. Wandering over, she leans her forearms on the guardrail before slowly turned her head towards him –

"Hey."

He doesn't speak. Instead he brings the rim of his beer to his lip, letting the amber liquid glide down his throat. As he lowers the beer bottle, he slowly allows his head to turn, but he doesn't look directly at her, instead he settles on a point just behind her, "Hey."

"You okay? I haven't seen you in a while," She was genuinely concerned. Even from a distance, when she first noticed him outside, she knew he was only a shell of himself. He may have been there physically, but definitely not mentally.

He contemplates telling her, "I needed some air."

He settles for some of the truth. The suffocation of people inside left him breathless. Left him to stand back and collapse into a world of hurt and desperation. Desperation of not being able to help those that needed helping. Not being able to bring justice to those who deserved it. Not being able to put the accusers behind bars when they themselves know they've done something terribly wrong.

Again he sees flashes of faces. Flashes of past crime scenes. Yellow tape. Frozen lakes. Ripped clothing. The devastation he himself felt. Recognition. Realisation. The darkening sorrow. The anger which had started to bubble.

"They're about to do the cake, you should come in." Pulling herself from the ledge, she gives him a smile.

He nods, not really hearing her words. His eyes follow her retreating form, the action involuntary, like many others before her, he always watches them leave.

Leaving is a way of denial. He had seen it all before. The comfort of their home was warming. He knew she'd just made a fresh batch of his favourite brownies. As he takes a sombre seat on the lounge, a game playing in the background, he looks at them. He's known them for such a long time. He chews the inside of his cheek, wondering why them. He wonders how he'll tell them the life as they knew it was all about to change. His partner does it for him, and he has to close his close. The outpours of devastated wails that emanate the room are all too much. His quivering lip threatens to break him, so he leaves. He leaves as fast as he can. Outside, with snow starting to fall, he gives in and let's go. The tears burn his face as he crumbles under the weight of losing somebody so close.

As he hears the door slide open, he turns, "Lindsay."

She turns back, deepening lines of worry seeping into her features as she closes the door and takes a step back towards him.

He can't find the words to what he wants to say, the emotional demons that haunt him are too raw. Telling her may break him all over again. "One day, I want to tell you everything."

"And that day I'll listen." She sees the vulnerability in him, and she feels it within herself too, "To every word."


End file.
